


❊ Rebirth ❊

by Mythstaken



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythstaken/pseuds/Mythstaken
Summary: Part One in ✞ .: ╱ CAME BACK WRONG :𝗥𝗲𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀. ╱:. ✞"What would you do if you were buried alive? " -- Buffy deals with being brought back from the dead, part one in this series. Buffy's POV.
Kudos: 3





	❊ Rebirth ❊

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

What would you do if you were buried alive? 

I don’t think that question was something many people had to think about in their lifetime, because the laws of nature remained unchanged in their mind. What was dead, stayed dead. That was how the world worked and that was how the world would continue to work, even after they died. 

But it wasn’t the way the world worked. 

What would you do if you were buried alive? 

There would be the dry mouth, throat parched and feeling like it was on fire with hot stones pressing into your skin. Nothing but a ragged scratch would come from your mouth, raspy wheezing as you try to remember how to form words from syllables but something that used to be so simple begins to become a process you lost. 

Help! — Is what you want to say. It is something you cannot say.

Then there would be the realization — slowly at first, the confusion starting to disappear as you realize that the so called eternal slumber was a lie. Suddenly the space becomes entirely too small, too claustrophobic as you realize that right now, you are buried six feet under — alive. That among you lay the dead, the remains of others tattered are your only company while the world above you goes on, and so it goes. 

That is when the desperations sets in ; your organs kick in, remembering to do their job while adrenaline starts to pump, heartbeat that had only started to remember its function moments ago was now being pushed into acceleration, your body warming after being hollow and cold, and suddenly it is becoming too much. Being alive is becoming overwhelming and it’s only been a minute. Your hands try to push upwards, not having much space to exert force but it does no good. Your body is frail, it feels weak. You try harder and harder, clawing at the embroidered satin and tearing at it, and for a moment, a thought comets through — really, they went with embossed satin? When you tear your way through the cloth, you find another layer, this one harder and not as easy to get through. Your throat is on fire, mind swimming and all you want to do is get out of there because you can’t breathe. You try using your legs, and try to kick through the wood of the.... casket. Wince. 

More desperation, and now you don’t care how you get out, but you know you need to. Hands start to claw at the wood, punching, raking, anything to make a tear in the structure that is holding your body. Your skin splinters and cracks, the sharp sting on your knuckles indicating bruises from the dragging. There is blood — because you are alive. Another wince. Suddenly your efforts are not at a loss, you make an opening and dirt comes tumbling down and for a moment you wonder if it is worth it, but the thought goes as soon as it is planted. Breath held, eyes closed, you ignore the pain of the splinters in your skin and you conjure all the strength you have to push yourself up, to destroy the casket and push through the earth — the same one you were taken from. You push and push and push into dirt that seems endless, the tunnel never ending, your tongue tasting the bland specks of dirt that found its way into your mouth. And suddenly you push your hand up again and it tears through an opening — but the relief is nowhere to be found. Hands grasping at the soil, at the disrupted grass that had been planted while you haul yourself up from your grave and immerse yourself into the world you had already exchanged your goodbyes with. 

Your body collapses on the ground, taking in a breath like a newborn — again — before pressing your face against the cool earth, but you keep your eyes closed. Because then you can still pretend that you are dead. That you have not somehow come back to life, to a place that never stopped with its hits, always knocking you down in a fight you never asked for. 

You open your eyes, and it is like time had been frozen, everything remained unchanged. You lift yourself up, look at the mess of the clothes that you were buried in, clothes that were supposed to remain unsoiled now tarred with blood and soil. Skin and nails all marked with dirt. Knuckles purple and flesh bloody and raw from tearing out of your own grave, but the biggest scar? Mental. You look back at the disruption in the ground, earth lifting, a hole to mark your arrival as eyes make way to the headstone. 

— - Buffy Summers ; 1981-2001 ; Beloved sister. Devoted friend. She saved the world. A lot. - — 

The gears in your mind come to a stop, snapping in place and fitting between the junctions, the realization like a tsunami slamming against you. You weren’t dead. You weren’t safe. You were alive. 

There is a sadness, hollow in its pang and something you don’t fully understand because you feel the loss of eternal peace. What was once warm, now had the flame blown out. You mourn.

What was it like to be buried alive? 

It was like wishing you were buried dead.


End file.
